


When A Plan Comes Together

by shyday



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Loss of Identity, these two need more fanfic love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season2's "Making Friends and Influencing People" wasn't the first time Coulson visited Jemma's apartment. Written for hurt/comfort bingo at LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When A Plan Comes Together

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: In response to a recent review noting my predilection for writing hurt/comfort, I decided to go all in and join up with hc-bingo at LiveJournal. The prompt for this one was "loss of identity," and it’s set in a few of the blank spaces between the S1 finale and 2.03’s “Making Friends and Influencing People.” Spoilers possible up to that episode. (Made somewhat AU by 2.06.)
> 
> I make no money, because they don’t belong to me.

 

 

 

The first time Coulson comes to Jemma’s new apartment, he knocks on the door.

 

She hears it from the other room, where she’s sitting on the floor with her back against the bed. She’s been here for hours now, running her fingers through the thick, unfamiliar carpet at her sides. A motion distracting if not comforting, one that she only notices when she stops crying. She’s been crying a lot, the last several days.

 

The noise registers only moments before the turning of the locks, the opening of the door. Jemma stumbles to her feet, going for the drawer that holds her weapon. It doesn’t occur to her that anyone breaking in probably has no reason to knock.

 

“Simmons?” Coulson’s voice floats through the airy apartment. “Are you in here?”

 

Jemma replaces the gun, tries to breathe through the racing of her heart. She wipes the lingering wetness from her eyes, the delicate area underneath feeling raw and inflamed. “Yes, sir,” she calls brightly, moving through the kitchen and toward the entryway to meet him. She wonders if he caught the cracks she can hear in those two simple words.

 

Coulson has a smile for her, one that quickly turns sheepish. “Sorry to barge in on you like that. Didn’t want anyone to see me loitering in the hall.”

 

“It’s fine.” This isn’t her house anyway, isn’t her life. She has no personal space anymore. Isn’t really even a person. Just a construct of lies that she has to find a way to wear over her skin.

 

His face softens. “How’re you holding up?”

 

A giddy laugh wants to bubble out over her lips; she presses them together into another forced smile. She’s not holding up, she’s _falling_. She’s lost everything she’d come to know and love.

 

But Coulson chose her for this, and she’s always aspired to be the agent he sees in her. And this won’t be forever. Jemma squares her shoulders, takes a breath. “As well as can be expected, sir.” It’s almost convincing.

 

He looks like he’s going to say something, changes his mind and nods. “Good.”

 

It’s only been four days, but she feels like she’s been apart from them for a year. If she closes her eyes, she can conjure up the smells of her lab. The sound of Fitz’s voice. He’d still been in his coma when she’d left them; it had been all she could do not cling to his bed and refuse to move from his side when Coulson had come to her with his plan. She’d resisted leaving him even long enough to go talk with the Director, prompting Coulson in the end to come to her. He’d spilled out the plot in whispers over Fitz’s silent head, and she’d listened without taking her eyes off her friend’s motionless face.

 

Eventually she’d agreed, been made to see the logic in beginning the subterfuge now. They needed to lay the foundations of their deception. There had to be a clear break with S.H.I.E.L.D., an obvious rift between that life and her new one, and the earlier this happened, the more convincing it would be when she turned up for her job. She hadn’t wanted to leave Fitz without at least saying goodbye, dreaded this aspect as much as the dangerous lies. They’d been through so much together. Jemma can’t bear the thought of him waking up to find her not there.

 

Is that why he’s here? Has something happened to Fitz? She actually feels the blood draining from her face, an experience that a distant scientific part of her brain snags on as fascinating, even as the world starts to grey at its edges. The meals she’s skipped conspire with her emotional exhaustion, threatening to knock her off her feet.

 

“Whoa…” Coulson grabs her arm, and the solidity of her universe grows outward from the pressure of his hand.

 

“Fitz?” It slips from her before she can fully focus on him. He’s close, still holding on to her; she can smell his aftershave.

 

“He’s fine,” Coulson says. “He… woke up.”

 

“What?” The crash of too many emotions at once challenges her stability again. She’s choked by a tangle of questions that all want to escape, and what comes out is a squeaky, strangled noise.

 

“Is there somewhere… Can we sit down and talk?”

 

Jemma realizes they’re still in the entryway, the narrow walls smelling faintly of fresh paint. She wonders vaguely if the person who’d chosen the color was the same person who’d selected the furniture. She hasn’t asked him how he set all this up, but she knows it wasn’t done through one of the team. He’d been adamant from the beginning that May was the only other agent in their group to be involved. No connections, fewer risks. They need the best odds they can manage.

 

Coulson’s waiting for a word from her; she almost tells him to make himself at home. Someone should.

 

Instead she gathers herself, the rules of hospitality giving her a hold on which to grab. “Of course. The living room?” Jemma works to streamline her flood of questions into something more orderly as they move. “Would you like something?” she hears her voice ask, a reflex of politeness and propriety. “Tea? I may have seen some coffee…”

 

Coulson sits on the sofa. “Whatever you’re having.”

 

She goes into the kitchen, grateful for the time. _Fitz is awake._ A grin spreads wide over her face as she fills the tea pot with water. _Fitz is awake._

 

But her joy is cut off like the turn of the tap, the questions rushing instantly back in. Is he okay? Does he know where she is? Could there possibly be some way for her to see him? Jemma’s eyes sting as the tears rise again, frustrated with how easily they come to her these days. She’s an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., a scientist. All this useless emotion is just getting in the way.

 

No - not S.H.I.E.L.D., she reminds herself. H.Y.D.R.A..

 

She hides in the kitchen – as well as one can hide in a space with such an open floor plan - until the tea is done, lost in a memory of her friend’s pale sleeping face. When she carries the tray into the other room, Coulson looks up from one of the science journals she’d left stacked on the coffee table. From the speed at which he’s flipping through it, she can tell he’s not actually reading.

 

He tosses it down casually; Jemma resists an impulse to straighten up the pile. She sets the tray carefully beside it and joins him on the sofa. Coulson shifts to face her, selecting a cup and draping his arm loosely over the back of the cushions. The motion opens his suit coat, pulls the white of his shirt tight over his ribs. She thinks he’s lost weight.

 

“He’s fine,” Coulson starts, reorienting her attention. But now he pauses. Seems to be searching for more to say. “Not one hundred percent, but fine. Still Fitz.”

 

Something flickers in his eyes at this, and Jemma gets the definite impression that he’s not telling her everything. It makes her teeth ache; she fights to unclench her jaw. She makes herself reach for the other cup and its saucer. Channels her focus into keeping her tone even and her hands from shaking as she brings it to her lips. “And what’s the prognosis?”

 

“It’s early yet. At this point we’ll just have to see how it goes.”

 

It feels like he’s picking his words very carefully. This does nothing to halt the mental string of worst case scenarios playing out in her head.

 

“What about…” Her reluctance to ask trips the words on her tongue. She takes a sip of her tea, tries again. “Was there any brain damage?”

 

Coulson flinches. Jemma barely notices the burn of the liquid that sloshes out of her cup and over the side of her hand.

 

“He’s… a little confused.” As if to make up for this evasive hesitation, his next words climb over each other in their attempts at reassurance. “But we don’t know that it’ll be anything permanent. He only came out of the coma two days ago. He’s barely awake right now for more than ten minutes at a time.”

 

“Two days?” The anguish she’s been holding back breaks the words into pieces. Her tea cup clatters in protest when she lets it go a half inch from the table. Jemma gets to her feet. “I have to be with him, maybe I can help. Sir –“

 

“Sit down.” It’s calm, a quiet order. Her body obeys, but she sits rigidly on the edge of the sofa. Her hands in her lap, fingers twisting around themselves. “I’m sorry,” Coulson says. “But you know you can’t.”

 

She won’t look at him. If they’d waited the week to put their plan into action, she would have been there when Fitz opened his eyes.

 

“Has he asked for me?” It’s spoken softly, into her lap; she’s afraid of the answer. Though she’s not sure which answer scares her more.

 

“The first word out of his mouth,” Coulson says with a smile.

 

“What… what did you tell him?”

 

The smile falters. He takes a drink to cover this. “Nothing yet. Like I said, he’s not very lucid.”

 

"What _will_ you tell him?" What is it she wants him to say?

 

She looks up to find Coulson studying her face. He shrugs. “What we told the rest of the team. That you needed to take some time.”

 

Time. As if she’d ever run away from the life she loves. She doesn’t want to do this.

 

But they already _are_ doing this. She’d agreed to wear this shell. “We’ve put word in the right ears that you’re on the job market,” Coulson says, pushing forward. “I’d expect H.Y.D.R.A. to reach out to you in the next week or so.”

 

Jemma nods, as if this is a good thing. She knows it’s supposed to be – she’ll need an interview before she can get the job. She visualizes picking up her phone to answer that call, already filling in responses to imagined questions.

 

“We won’t be able to meet like this very often,” Coulson continues, pulling her back to the room, “but we’ll arrange a series of dead drops to make sure you have everything you need. Here.”

 

He pulls a thin, rolled sheet from his breast pocket, hands it to her. Jemma recognizes the film, a voice-activated screen that she and Fitz had been playing with last year. It’ll be the safest way for her to send messages to them. She sets it on the coffee table beside the tea tray.

 

Her looming isolation blankets her shoulders again. She’d forgotten, for just a moment, having Coulson here.

 

She doesn’t want to do this.

 

He glances at his watch. Places his cup and saucer on the table next to hers. “I have to go.” It’s apologetic. Her brain casts about frantically for some way to keep him here. “I don’t know when we’ll be in contact again. Is there anything you need right now? While I’m here?”

 

Coulson’s on his feet; from her angle still on the sofa, he looks impossibly tall. Jemma starts to shake her head, reconsiders. “Actually, sir, yes.” She stands as well – this is a professional request, not some kind of childish… safety blanket. “I’d like to see Fitz’s medical records. His brain scans. Maybe there’s some way I can help.”

 

That’s the second time she’s said that, she realizes. She’s not entirely certain what it is that she might be able to help _with_.

 

It takes a long moment, but he nods. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

She follows him through the kitchen, back to the entryway. She wants to plead with him not to leave. Coulson stops before the front door and turns back to her. “I know this is hard.”

 

She wonders if he really does. What that emotion is that she sees clouding his eyes.

 

“But you’re the best agent for the job. I’m positive you can do this.”

 

His hands are on her shoulders. Jemma forces a smile.

 

“Of course, sir. You can count on me.”

 

*

 

 

The second time Coulson visits, he’s already waiting when she gets there.

 

“How was your first day?”

 

Jemma spins around with an undignified noise; Coulson appears in the kitchen doorway with his customary closed mouth smile. She covers her thudding heart with a hand, remembering how to breathe as she hangs up her bag. Exhausting was how it was, a day of tip-toeing and second guesses. An entire day of being someone else.

 

She takes off her coat. “Good.” It goes in its place on the hook next to her purse. She wants to relax her shoulders. To go back to being Jemma. “It went well, I think.”

 

She turns again to face him, her own smile practiced and sparkling.

 

A muscle in his jaw twitches. But his voice is as upbeat as hers. “Good.” He gestures into the kitchen. “Come tell me about it. I thought we could order a pizza.”

 

It’s a difficult transition from the long hours of having to be constantly on guard. She feels a little stunned as she follows him into the other room.

 

It’s been months since he’s been in direct contact; they’d both been well aware that H.Y.D.R.A. was digging into every aspect of her now, before and most definitely after that first successful interview. She’d spent most of that time here, too much of it on the treadmill. Desperately trying to keep the loneliness and anxiety from swallowing her whole.

 

Last week she’d gotten caught up in a casual conversation with a seller at the farmer’s market. She’d realized somewhere in the middle of it that she couldn’t recall the last time she’d spoken with another human being.

 

“Pizza sounds lovely.” She’s not at all hungry. Jemma leaves him to order, going into the lavatory to wash her face.

 

She debates changing out of her suit; she decides she’ll be more comfortable in it than something more casual, as long as Agent Coulson is here. _Director_ Coulson. He’s always been her superior, for as long as she’s known him. She’s still getting used to the new title, though it seems to make little difference.

 

Or perhaps it does. He’s hanging up the phone when she gets to the low wall separating the living space from the kitchen, and there’s a heartbeat or two before he notices her presence. She thinks he looks tired.

 

Maybe she’s merely projecting. The realization that she’s going to have to return to do it all again tomorrow makes her want to curl up underneath the table.

 

She takes a seat in one of the chairs instead. “Wasn’t sure what you wanted,” Coulson says, “so I went old school. Half pepperoni, half cheese.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“A classic.” He grabs a couple of beers from the refrigerator; her eyebrow lifts at this. He’d brought her beer? Just as well. The appliance was sitting empty. He joins her at the table; his fingers play absently with his phone where it rests in front of him. There’s a tension to him that she doesn’t remember, papered over with smiles and small talk. They’ve never been close, but for a time she’d passed as his doctor. Or the nearest thing to it. Her instincts whisper that something’s not right.

 

“So tell me about it,” he says friendly, like they’re sitting in a bar after work. Coulson takes a drink. Jemma watches his throat flex as he swallows. “What’d you do today?”

 

She takes a sip of her own beer. It puddles unpleasantly in her empty stomach. “Not a lot. Several tours.” Miles and miles of hallways. Labs. Offices. Barely time to peek her head into a room before she was rushed along to the next. The sensation of already being far behind. “I got the impression that they intend to have me start working on something small. To judge my skills.”

 

“Be patient,” Coulson says. “You’ve still got a long way to go.”

 

The statement rings through the air between them, stings like a slap to her face. He hears the unintentional callous notes shortly after she does. The lines at his eyes tighten into a wince.

 

But the people pleaser in her strives to fill the silence. To fix the situation. To provide the correct answers. “I’ll draw up a map of the building tonight, sir. The areas I’ve seen, that is.”

 

The promise sits awkwardly, balancing at a fork in the path whereby they might neatly sidestep the deeper issue. Coulson takes the opportunity.

 

“Great.” His smile widens his face, but it doesn’t affect his eyes. She waits for a joke, a smug play on words. Coulson just brings the bottle back up to his lips. This man seems so much more closed off than the one she used to see every day. “What else? Make any new friends?”

 

Jemma can’t help but grimace at this. Coulson laughs at her expression, an amused puff of air. It sounds genuine. “Don’t worry,” he tells her. “It’ll come.”

 

Somehow she doubts this. Her social skills have never been exactly stellar, and she’s having too much trouble trying to pretend she’s one of them to have energy to devote to finding some kind of a connection. Besides, _friends_ calls to mind Fitz, the team on the Bus. She can’t fit the features of any of the people she met today over their familiar faces.

 

Her smile is as false as his. Maybe she’s already getting better at wearing a mask. “Sure.”

 

Jemma’s gaze falls to the table. There’s a chip in the wood, even though it’s brand new, and she has the absurd thought that it had been made on purpose. Another layer of detail in the character study that’s now her life. She rubs at it with her thumb like she might somehow erase it.

 

Coulson’s hand is trembling, a faint shivering against the label of the bottle he’s holding. Her eyes slide up to his face. “Sir? Are you all right?” She’s concerned, of course. And not particularly reluctant to be able to deflect the attention away from herself.

 

Recognition of this makes her frown; Coulson mirrors the expression. His hand spasms around the beer before he lets go. He brings one hand up to meet the other, rubbing them together as he glances toward the door. “I’m starving is what I am. I hope it doesn’t take them as long as they said it would - you’d think being Director would at least mean pizza in thirty minutes or less.”

 

A clear deflection. She should let him have it. “It’s just that you seem… stressed,” she says anyway.

 

“I’m fine.” It has the impression of being automatic, oft-repeated. “Tired.” This sounds more sincere. “I’ve been busy. Turns out there’s a lot of fine print with this Director gig.”

 

The last line is tossed out casually, but she can see that he’s back behind his walls. Even his body language is different from the man she served under.

 

“But I didn’t come to talk about me.” Because he won’t. He _can’t_. They’re both well aware that any information she’s told could fall into H.Y.D.R.A.’s grasp should she be interrogated. She wonders what case they’re working on now.

 

If Fitz is helping.

 

Jemma manages to wait until the pizza arrives before she asks about him, the time in between filled with detailed descriptions of as many rooms and people from the day as she can remember. The debrief is recorded by a small mic in the center of the table; Coulson’s eyes dart about her face as she reports, both hands wrapped tightly around the bottle. Jemma speaks mostly to a spot just over his left shoulder, his focus a little unnerving.

 

“How’s Fitz?” It slips from her as he’s about to take a bite. “I mean, _everyone_. Yes. How is everyone?”

 

“He’s doing better.” This might be more reassuring if Coulson doesn’t then put the slice down without eating from it. “Improving every day.”

 

Her own greasy pizza waits unappealingly on her plate. Would he lie to her about this? She’s always trusted his word. Known him to keep information to himself certainly, at times, but never to lie. Not to his team.

 

But what if she’s no longer considered to be a part of the team?

 

There are so many things she wants to ask, but her tongue is stilled by a fear of not getting any answers. Or the wrong ones. She can’t deny what she saw in those early brain scans. She knows there’s still a lot of unhealed damage yet.

 

“He misses you,” Coulson says. “We all miss you.”

 

The debrief continues through the rest of their meal, Jemma obediently now following his lead. Responding to his questions allows her to not think too much about hers. Doing most of the talking enables her to only pick at her food, without having it be too obvious.

 

Despite his claims to hunger, Coulson doesn’t eat much either. At least there will be something to keep the beer company in her refrigerator for a few days. Jemma makes a motion for him to stay seated as she clears the table. She puts the kettle on to boil for tea. His neck is bent when she turns back around, his hand massaging the corded muscles there.

 

He seems restless, and she’s barely surprised when he comes up with an excuse to leave soon after. It makes her memories of slow nights lounging around all together on the Bus seem just that much farther away. She can’t imagine this Coulson lounging.

 

The kettle starts its whistle as she’s walking him the short distance to the door. Coulson stops to put a hand on her shoulder; his eyes flick toward the noise before coming back to find her face. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

 

A squeeze of her shoulder, before he escapes into the hall.

 

Because it feels like an escape. An option Jemma doesn’t have. She doesn’t know what he’s running from, but she’s got nowhere to go. She returns to the kitchen to remove the kettle from the heat, the boundaries of her new life narrowing inexorably around her.

 

*

 

The third time, Jemma comes back to the apartment to find him asleep at her kitchen table.

 

His head pillowed on folded arms, his jacket slung over the chair. She wonders that he didn’t wake when she closed the front door. Frowning, Jemma crosses the room. Her low heels click across the tile floor.

 

“Sir?” She puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.

 

Coulson’s head comes up fast; Jemma takes an unintentional step backward. They’re both startled.

 

She sees when he places his location. He runs a hand over his hair, rubs at his eyes. “I guess I fell asleep?” It’s somewhere between a statement and a question.

 

The situation feels somewhat surreal; Jemma doesn’t know what to do with herself. She hadn’t expected him to be here tonight. “You sound surprised?” It’s light, and too close to the tone she uses at her job. Getting easier to produce every day.

 

“Just doesn’t happen very much anymore.” She’s decided to make tea; his words stop her with a hand on the tap. It has the confessional tone of something not meant to have been said aloud. She glances at him over her shoulder, sees the deep smudges under his eyes.

 

Coulson shrugs it off. Looks at his watch. “You’re home late.”

 

 _Home_. As if she’ll ever associate that word with this space.

 

She fills the kettle with water. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” A low-level experiment, but one that she found tickled her curiosity. With only an empty apartment to return to, there’d been no reason not to work on it for an extra hour.

 

“You couldn’t have known. Anything interesting?”

 

“Nothing that as yet has any practical applications. Very preliminary.”

 

"But interesting."

 

“Oh yes, sir,” she gushes, honesty overtaking her even words. “H.Y.D.R.A. has some amazing lab tech.” She still hates this role she has to play. But it’s been simpler, now and then, to forget about it all, losing both selves completely in the occasional thrill of the science. Her basic cover is that she only wants to _work_ , that her loyalties can ultimately be swayed by anyone who will let her do that. She’d like to believe that she’s far more faithful than that, but with every passing day it feels less like it’s entirely a lie.

 

Not that she would ever follow H.Y.D.R.A., not for any reason. Absurd. Jemma shakes herself, joins Coulson at the table. “It will, of course, be included in my report.”

 

“Of course.” He’s looking her over; she does the same to him. His face is all pinched lines. “How’re you doing?”

 

It brings with it a breath of the warmth she remembers from him, the sense that he really cares. She tries to pull herself completely into this moment. Back into _this_ person called Jemma. She doesn’t want to admit it, not even to herself, but the division is a little more blurry now.

 

“I’m doing well, sir.” This is definitely a lie; something in his eyes tells her he knows this. “Things seem to be going according to the plan.”

 

“Excellent. I love it when a plan comes together.”

 

It sounds as if he’s quoting something; Jemma doesn’t get the reference. The kettle raises its alarm, and she gets up from the table to gather the things she needs. She wonders what he’s doing here. Runs through her recent work in her head, trying to determine if any of it could possibly have popped on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar. Maybe it’s something to do with the team – but what, she can’t guess. With this new disconnection between them, they may as well have been part of a different life.

 

When she returns to the table, Coulson’s got his elbows propped on the wood and his face in his hands. It’s a posture of naked exhaustion, one she isn’t prepared for. The cups rattle in their saucers as she fumbles with the tray. She can hear the sole of his heel tapping rhythmically on the tile floor, an action that feels compulsive and contradictory in contrast with his obvious fatigue.

 

Jemma sets the tray on the table. “Sir?”

 

His hands immediately drop from his face; he gives her a weak smile. “I’m fine.” A reflexive response to a question she hadn’t actually asked. His shoe continues its beat under the table. He doesn’t seem to notice.

 

Jemma pours two cups of tea, searching for a way to approach this. Especially without any kind of context. “You haven’t been sleeping?” She aims for conversational, casual. She gets close.

 

Coulson reaches for one of the cups; his hand is shaking. He flexes it in and out of a fist, pulls it back under the table out of sight. “I’ve been busy.”

 

“So you’ve said.” It’s sharper than she’d meant it to be; she sees the surprise flash in his eyes. This distance lending her a boldness overstepping both her usual nature and their chain of command. She reminds herself that she still does work for him. Even if she’s answering to someone else on a daily basis. “Sir,” Jemma adds, as an afterthought.

 

She can’t really translate the look on his face, but she thinks there might be a vague amusement woven in with all the rest. It pushes her to continue, “I’m just concerned.”

 

“It’s under control.” If the amusement was there, it’s gone now. He simply sounds worn down. “Something I’ve been putting off dealing with.”

 

Jemma has no idea what this means. “If there’s anything I can do…”

 

“I should be saying that to you.” Coulson gets to his feet, his chair legs screeching over the tile. The space seems suddenly smaller as she watches his awkward attempt to pace around in it. More than just exhaustion, there’s the definite sense of restlessness that she’d gotten a hint of the last time he was here. She barely knows this man.

 

He opens and closes a random cabinet. Peers into the refrigerator. “Is this the same beer I brought you?”

 

That was months ago. “No.” She doesn’t admit that she’d taken care to replace it with the same kind. That opening the refrigerator door and seeing it in there reminds her every time a little of him. Of them.

 

Coulson closes the refrigerator. Leans against the counter with his hands in his pockets. He watches her for a long moment before he speaks. “It’s important, Jemma. What you’re doing.”

 

She wonders which of them he’s trying to convince. She isn’t accustomed to hearing her first name in his voice. Jemma nods.

 

“You’re doing great,” he says. “Keep it up.”

 

It’s like getting a gold star from a teacher; under other circumstances it would be enough. If she wasn’t quite literally risking her life. If she wasn’t so alone. But he’s trying to be supportive, and, in the end, there’s really nothing he can say that would feel sufficient. Jemma summons up a smile, the same shining example she practices for the H.Y.D.R.A. supervisors and front desk security. “Thank you, sir,” she says through her teeth. “I’ll do my best.”

 

“I know you will.”

 

Jemma takes a sip from her cup, only to find her tea already lukewarm. She can feel the excess energy buzzing around him from here.

 

Now Coulson winces, pinches the bridge of his nose. He exhales a long, measured breath. “It was a mistake to come here,” he says softly. “I need to go.”

 

It’s the _need_ that stands out; she can see the muscles clenching in his jaw. She wishes she knew what was going on. “Sir, maybe you should sit down.” Jemma’s already getting to her feet, wanting to do something.

 

Another careful breath. “It’s nothing.” His hand falls. He takes a step away from the counter and his leg buckles underneath him. He grips the edge of the sink, trying to find his balance.

 

Jemma’s immediately beside him. “It seems our definitions of the word differ a bit.”

 

He flashes her an honest grin from where he’s slumped against the counter; she’s happy to have caught it as quickly as it disappears. One more bracing breath and he’s standing up relatively straight. He takes a tentative step. She resists the impulse to grab for his arm.

 

“I need to go,” he says again. Tightly. Almost insistent. “I’m sorry.”

 

A part of her wants to tell him to stop showing up here, if it can only be for brief moments at a time. It’s such a tease, a taste of her old life that she isn’t certain is entirely beneficial. A wound reopened every time that he leaves.

 

She doesn't say this.

 

He’s standing unsupported, but this close she can feel the tremors running through his frame with an alarming regularity. It seems unlikely that he’ll get very far. “Sir, I don’t think…“ She’s not really sure how to phrase this.

 

She doesn’t have to; Coulson reads her mind. “I’ve got a driver downstairs. One of the perks of being Director.”

 

Jemma follows him to the door. She might be swayed by his tone were it not for the pallor of his face. “Perhaps I should go with you?”

 

Coulson shakes his head, his lips pressed together in a smile. Or a grimace. “We can’t risk being seen together. I’ll be okay – this’ll pass, trust me. You’ve got plenty of other things to worry about.”

 

_Not my doctor. Not part of my team._

 

“Yes, sir.” Her new crafted smile. Hiding so much. “Feel better.” It isn’t what she wants to say. It feels completely inadequate for so many reasons.

 

He’s clearly in a hurry to leave. Jemma can’t say if her rush of anxiety is empathic, or merely the knowledge that in a minute she’ll be back to being alone. There’s no point to asking when he’ll next be here, the schedule based largely on circumstance. She manages to keep her smile plastered to her lips until he turns to go.

 

It isn’t until the door closes snug behind him that Jemma realizes she forgot to ask about Fitz.

 

 

 

 

end.


End file.
